


Two Worlds

by libraryv



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Action & Romance, F/M, Russo Persian War, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23352733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Fedya must fight not only to win the battle, but to get back home.
Relationships: Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov & Original Character(s)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed a shot of Dolokhov and Clara. :) So here he is, being Dolokhovian.

**Petersburg, 1813**

The handsome pine clock sounded the hour; its chime sounding blithe and robust in the echoing silence. Clara finished the last few words of the sentence in her letter, then sat back from her writing desk, looking out the window of the parlor. 

The view beyond was a silent spring, a vast expanse of melting white. The dark silhouettes of fir and pine trees stood sentry along the gravel drive; their proud branches stiff with glittering, icy drifts. The candle on her desk flared, then guttered out. 

In the sudden dark, Clara could make out her reflection against the glass, blurry and pale, wreathed by tendrils of smoke.

A tentative voice made her jump.

“Pyotr is set to light the lamps, miss. Can I get you anything?”

Clara smiled at the girl, shaking her head. 

“No, thank you Olga.”

Olga smiled shyly back and bobbed a curtsy before disappearing down the hall, taking warmth and light with her. 

Clara turned back to the window, then got gracefully to her feet. She drew her wrap more tightly around her. She was not patient by nature: she found that waiting quietly for her husband to return home from war was harder than she had anticipated.

She walked with soft steps towards the bookshelf, letting her fingers trail along the spines of the titles. Her hand unerringly found a thin, worn notebook, and it made her smile into the dusk.

She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the memory of wicked, laughing green eyes, of a wolfish grin, and dark hair. Of burning kisses that consumed them both, of a level of adoration that belied the bold hunter.

Their brief history consisted solely of stolen moments, of forbidden encounters that left them breathless and gasping, forever wanting more. Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov was like a bolt of lightning that had come and left; scorching her thoroughly, and then gone again in a flash. 

Clara imagined the heat and sun-soaked fields of Persia, a place so different from anywhere she had been, and closed her eyes.

Victory would not come without a price: she hated that Dolokhov might be one of the many who paid it. She pictured him battling hard, ferocity etched in every taught line of muscle, and clenched her hand into a useless fist, standing there helplessly in the stillness.

_Please, let him be safe._

**Russo-Persian War, 1813**

“Damn it to hell!” Dolokhov swore as he charged into the fray. He would not break his promise to Clara: he must return alive. 

But he could not, would not, let Aleks die.

It was a bloody battle; Dolokhov was not used to war like this. Here, in the hot fields by the Askerna river, there were no rows of men in uniform. There was no marching, no line charges.

This was a writhing, churning mass of bodies. Only small groups of men, but The heat was relentless; the fighting churned up torrential dust and grit. It was butchery: the heavy curved cutlasses of the Persian troops hacked away at Russian limbs. The smell of blood rose up all around him.

A flash of red amongst the tan and gold Persian uniforms: he could just make out Aleks, falling to his knees. Aleks’ tousled brown curls remained glinting in the sun; he was fighting from the ground, his long sword looking dangerously thin against the blow of a scythe.

Dolokhov was five or six bodies away and there was no time for grace or finesse. He was throwing himself behind every desperate thrust of his sword; barely looking at the faces of the men he was cutting down. 

A few paces more and a short, quicksilver pain to his right arm before he dealt it back a hundredfold; a body fell at the end of his sword and he was almost, almost to Aleks-

He saw the tawny head sag, saw Aleks slump forward, and Dolokhov yelled; a raw, animal roar that preceded the deadly flash of his sword. He reached Aleks and went to his own knees in the dusty ground, catching his friend with one arm; Aleks sank heavily into him.

Dolokhov was aware of the mess he was in; he could not let Aleks’ slumped body become a shield, and he let go, pushing at him and hissing, 

“Sit _up,_ damn you, or you’ll be the death of us both.”

Something of the soldier’s awareness remained; Aleks blinked, swaying but staying upright, as Dolokhov stood in front of him just in time to block another blow. Another glancing pain to his right shoulder, now, and Dolokhov knew he had been compromised. He hefted his sword to his left hand and whirled around to see another curved cutlass coming at him. 

He could not fight all of them off; he was a weak target. They were closing in; he was slashing with his blade in desperate motions. He could not kill them, but enough to maim, to buy time-

He felt another hot blaze of pain at his back that sent him to his knees. Aleks was crumpled at his feet, silent and still. This was how it ended, then.

An image of Clara came to Dolokhov; her eyes dancing up at him as he swept her across the ballroom floor. 

_No._

_She is waiting._

He yelled, flinging his sword in a random arc as he tried to squeeze sweat and dirt from his eyes. He felt the steel cut through flesh through the melee of bodies surrounding him-

Two more bodies in red appeared in the mob; Sasha and Rodion, sweaty faced and dirty, but behind them more horses and Russian troops, clearing a path through the battle. 

The relief that swept through him was as overpowering as exhaustion, but Dolokhov kept fighting, his left arm nearly as quick and ruthless and swift as his right. 

The appearance of his fellow soldiers made the difference; the tide began to turn quickly. Soon, the Persians who were left began to retreat, and the exhausted Russian men, too tired to cheer, merely slumped against each other in the grimy silence. They began the grim task of checking the bodies littered in the dirt.

Aleks was hoisted onto a horse, and another spare one was offered to Dolokhov, who took hold of the reins and swung himself up. 

“Captain!” Sasha said, pointing at him. 

Dolokhov looked down and saw his jacket darkened with blood. Adrenaline was pumping through him, and he could only feel a curious coldness spreading from his shoulder. He shook his head.

“I’ll make the ride to camp.”

He only had to hold on until then. 

Camp, and-

Clara.


	2. A Captain's Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and Dolokhov's two worlds are reconciled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had fun researching a world I know nothing about! :) At first, I wasn't even sure if soldier's wives would be with a regiment - but they were. In fact, during the 19th century, it was common that they would travel with their husbands. It was common to see them among the camped men: they served as laundresses, cooks, nurses. Their social status was connected to their husband - so the higher in rank their husband, the more privileged the woman would be. Dolokhov, being a captain, would have easily been able to request for his wife join him.  
> ...and I love the idea of them being separated for a long time, then reunited. Especially with some risk and injury and sexual tension. *grins*

_Petersburg, April 1813_

“This is my dear friend Clara Dolokhovna,” said Natasha merrily, as Clara sank into a graceful curtsy. 

The Duchess narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing.

“Yes. I have heard of you, of course.” She looked Clara over from top to bottom, and finding nothing immediately at fault, sniffed.

“We were all scandalized by your marriage. Captain Fyodor Dolokhov is a scoundrel. I am astonished such a man would marry anyone.” 

“I-” Clara began.

“And giving up the title of Countess! Goodness, what rashness!”

“It was-” Clara tried.

“Heavens, though, such a choice for a husband!”

The Duchess brought up her glass and examined Clara once again. 

“Still. There is no denying he is a handsome man, and he has chosen a handsome bride. You look well together, I am quite sure.”

Clara smiled, inclining her head in a small bow to hide her amusement.

“I thank you, Duchess.”

The Duchess’ brows drew together, watching Clara’s face.

“Hmph. I had heard your husband was promoted. He will have sent for you to join him, then? You are travelling to Persia?”

A pang of apprehension went through Clara. “Indeed.”

The woman sniffed again. 

“The life of a Captain’s wife. Let us see what a former Countess shall make of such an existence.”

Natasha had captured Clara’s hand in hers, and gave it a consoling squeeze.

_Russian Military Encampment, Persia, May 1813_

Clara straightened her shoulders against weariness as she watched her luggage thrown with little ceremony to the dusty ground, and lifted a hand against the afternoon sun, staring ahead of her at the bustling Russian barracks. Small tents peppered the field in front of her, tucked into the curve of the Askerna River. Men in various states of uniform undress ran to and fro, shouting orders at each other, and peals of laughter burst out from around hastily built fires. The outline of a narrow, rough building rose in the distance.

_The life of a Captain’s wife. Let us see what a former Countess shall make of such an existence._

She ran her hand down her traveling clothes in a futile attempt to smooth the wrinkled fabric. Weeks of travel by sea, and then a two-day rattling carriage ride. She took off her hat, despite the heat, and enjoyed the feel of a breeze lifting the curls off her forehead.

Mila, Aleks’ young bride and Clara’s sweet, innocent traveling companion the past weeks, clutched at Clara’s arm, eyes wide.

“I cannot believe it.”

Clara knew what she meant. How strange to be here, in this hot, dusty land, finally at their destination. How strange to know that after a year of letters and memories, she would actually be seeing Fedya.

A Corporal strode by, noticing them. He wore a kind expression, despite obvious weariness, and stopped short with a curt bow. 

“Officer’s wives?”

Clara nodded, curtsying, and the man chuckled bitterly. “Who are you in search of?” 

“The ninth regiment.”

Pity flashed in his eyes, and the Corporal rubbed a hand down his face.

“You are in luck,” he said with a touch of sarcasm, and Clara understood. Her heart began to pound. 

“They have been traveling back from the front lines, after being relieved this morning. If you make your way to the main barracks,” he gestured to the building in the distance, “someone will show you your husbands’ rooms.” 

He sighed, then continued. 

“We expect them back any moment. It was a victory, but there were... losses. And injuries.” His eyes went to Mila, still shaking eagerly by Clara’s side. 

“Prepare her,” he said gruffly to Clara, then clicked his heels together and left.

“What does he mean? Are we to see them tonight?” Mila’s eyes were huge.

“They were relieved by another regiment this morning, and are making their return as we speak,” said Clara kindly, her own pulse racing. 

The foolish girls’ eyes lit up. 

“We will see them soon!”

Clara nodded slowly, squinting at the young girl’s face in the sun. 

“You understand, don’t you Mila? That they are returning from battle?”

“Yes, I-I understand.” Mila’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she smiled. 

“They are together, though, are they not? They will have protected each other.”

Clara squeezed her hand.

“I truly hope so.”

_____________

The setting sun was extremely bright; the simple room that Clara had been shown to with its bed and desk and basin was awash in an unnatural red glow. She was seated at the desk, chin in her hand, looking out at the bustling courtyard below, fascinated by the comings and goings of the army men in the field. 

She had bathed as best she could, and changed into a simple, apple-green summer dress, putting up her dark hair as far as she could manage, turning this way and that before the tiny, plain mirror, trying to examine herself through her husband’s eyes. It had been so long since they had seen each other. 

Distraction from waiting for Dolokhov’s regiment to return. Waiting to see him, or-

He had to have survived. 

A clear, crystalline note sounded in the distance. A military horn. Clara got to her feet, moving past the desk and squinting into the distance. Sure enough, a column of movement could be seen on the horizon, silhouettes etched black against the blazing skyline. She took a deep breath, then extinguished the candle and left the room, feeling strangely disconnected, as if she were watching this part of her life unfold from somewhere far away. 

She knocked on Mila’s door, and the girl pulled it open at once. She must have been just waiting behind it. 

“Is it them?” she asked, breathless. Clara nodded, and the two of them went down the stairs, reaching the bottom and joining a group of soldiers and other military wives heading out to meet the returning regiment. The hoofbeats that had seemed so far away moments ago, were now thundering closer in a slow march. 

They arranged themselves along the path, watching the column of men approach. The soldiers were a ragged bunch; some limped, some were barely supported by their fellow soldiers. 

There were broken greetings called out; a few of them broke formation and went to their wives or waiting groups of friends.

A group bearing a makeshift pallet came by, and Clara’s stomach lurched as she recognized the tawny curls atop the still and silent form of Aleks’ body. 

Mila began to crumple beside her, but Clara gripped her arm hard, saying,

“He is not dead - they would not be carrying him to the infirmary if he were. Mila.” She turned the other girl’s face towards her own. 

“Can you hear me? He is not. Dead.”

Mila nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. 

“Go with them, he needs you.” 

They watched the pallet with its grim cargo pass. Clara could feel Mila’s hesitation, and could hardly blame her.

“Go with them,” she urged Mila again, gently pushing her forward. Mila stumbled towards the group, and a young soldier looked up. 

“His wife,” explained Clara, and the soldier nodded as the sombre group kept going. If Aleks was among these men - Clara’s heart was in her throat as she asked,

“Captain Fyodor Dolokhov?” 

The youth’s face was blank, but the man next to him spoke up, speaking over his shoulder.

“Still behind us. His injuries are not too severe, I think. He left the battlefield able to ride, at least, he insisted-”

Clara didn’t hear the rest, she was running, unladylike as it was, down the weary line of marching men. Another group now, on horseback, and she was scanning the tired faces quickly-

_Dolokhov._

Determination obvious in every inch of his frame, although he was leaning slightly left in the saddle. Avoiding a bad side, then. Worry shot through her, followed quickly by relief, then pride: her heart filled as she watched him march closer. His face was set, his jaw clenched grimly; he may be hurting, but he would not let it sway him. 

Then, the world fell away, because he caught sight of her. They didn’t break eye contact as the men marched closer and closer. A few metres, then one, then he swung down from the horse and was walking swiftly towards her, his left arm already reaching for her.

Clara ran to him, getting a brief glimpse of his bright green eyes in a filthy face before she was in his embrace. She could hear calls and joking from the men as they continued to march past; neither she nor Fedya cared. He was alive, he was _alive_ , all hard muscle and dirt and sweat and beating heart beneath her palms. 

They drew apart, and his hand came up with trembling fingers, framing her face in wonder.  
“Kiss me,” he breathed, shattering vulnerability in his eyes as they roamed her face. “Kiss me and I will believe it.”

Then her mouth was on his, and the world split into a prism of brightly-coloured sensations, this ferocious man kissing her in the deepening shadows of sunset, real and desperate and hungry. His arm tightened around her waist, and she felt him smile against her lips.

They drew apart again, breathless, and he rested his forehead against hers. 

“You are returned to me,” he said, his voice ragged, and she nodded, unable to speak, tears threatening to spill over, her fingers bunching in his uniform coat. She couldn’t let go, and then he was kissing her again, he was whispering her name brokenly into her hair, over and over and over. 

Men continued to march past, and she became aware that though his left arm held her tightly to him, his right hung heavy and still at his side. He was leaning his weight rather alarmingly into hers, and the fistful of rough fabric in her left hand was soaked not with sweat, as she had assumed, but with blood. She unclenched her fingers and saw rust-coloured droplets on them. 

“Your shoulder, your arm-”

“It’s nothing,” he murmured, pressing feverish kisses into her curls. “A scratch.”

“Fedya.” She leaned back slightly and looked into his eyes. Oh, how she had missed those eyes. Brilliant, expressive green, they were blazing with emotion, but shadowed with pain, as well. Her heart seized with worry. 

“If it is nothing, then hold me with both arms.”

He brought his injured arm smoothly to her waist, but was unable to entirely hide a deep grunt of pain. His eyes grew unfocused for a moment, dizzy, before hardening into an annoyed gleam.

“I will not be separated from you, after a year, to go into a medical tent because of a mere-”

“You will not be separated from me,” said Clara, raising her eyebrows in warning, battling the cascade of emotions storming through her. Less than a minute together and he would insist on being ridiculously stubborn.

“Believe me, Fedya, I did not travel all the way here to be reunited with you in order to lose you to a ‘mere scratch’.”

They stared at each other, their familiar tempers easy to reach for when their emotions were running so hot. Fedya’s mouth thinned into a frustrated line. Then, so suddenly it startled her, he laughed, his teeth white in the dirt-streaked face.

“I have missed you.” 

He pulled her in for a sudden, hungry press of his lips to hers, and then nodded, still holding tightly to her. “All right, my firebrand. This way.”

Then, he swayed dangerously forward, his arm dropping from around her, and fell with a heavy thud to his knees in the dirt.


	3. More Than One Kind of Bravery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov finally gets his wound taken care of, Clara receives a crash-course introduction to his life, and they both experience a roller-coaster ride of emotions as they re-learn how to be in each other's presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, they both go through the wringer in terms of emotions in this one! 
> 
> I struggled, because I wanted to balance their desire and eagerness and love they would feel at being back together, with the hesitation and uncertainty of not seeing one another for soooo long.

His vision was tunneling; black spots were bleeding into his vision. Clara had dropped to her knees beside him, saying his name; she was keeping him tethered to consciousness, his lifeline.  
He couldn’t believe it. She was _here_ , so vivid and real that she felt brighter than the sun; his heart was blazing in his chest as he looked at her.

He had spent more nights than he could count, dreaming of her. 

Dolokhov forced himself to focus, pulling his mouth into a smile, and she tentatively returned it, but she wasn’t fooled. Her beautiful eyes were sharp and assessing as ever, and it almost made him want to laugh. Clever girl. He had never been able to put anything past her.

His shoulder, after staying obediently numb during the endless march back, felt as if it were on fire. He gritted his teeth against a fresh wave of pain.

“Captain!” A few of his men had reached them and dismounted, gathering around. “Captain, Levky is here,” said Sasha, bringing forward their field doctor. 

“He is bleeding, quite badly, from his right shoulder, I think” Clara stated, and Dolokhov was shocked to see her fingers, and the front of her dress, smeared with red. Was that his blood?

Sasha smiled at her.

“He refuses to leave any of our regiment behind, and went back for one of us, near the end of the battle. He got a nasty slice, I _knew_ he was making too light of it.”

Levky squinted down at them in the last of the fading sunlight. 

“Your coat, Captain.”

Dolokhov obediently held his arms still at the sides, his front braced against Sasha as Levky pulled the jacket down from behind him.

Dolokhov swore heavily as a ripping sensation went right through him; the fabric at his shoulder had become so saturated with blood that it had stuck to the wound, baking in the sun as he rode. Levky gave another tug, and the material came free with a sickening wrench.

Dolokhov swore again, gasping, and Clara reached out to him, eyes wide with sympathy, but her expression was so fierce, her gaze so clear and unwavering, that it kept him focused.

If she could be brave for him, he could be brave for her.

He swayed, blinking against the pain. He fought down a wave of nausea, swallowing convulsively as Levky examined his shoulder. Now his arm felt as if it were about to fall right off.

“This is fairly large, but not dangerously deep, I think,” said Levky, and Clara’s hand squeezed his.

“You need skillful needlework, more than I am capable of. I’d rather the surgeon took care of this, Captain. Sasha can take you on his horse, if you can wait; the infirmary isn’t far from here.”

“I can wait, but one of you needs to help me to my damn feet,” Dolokhov grinned, bravado on full display for Clara’s benefit, and Sasha reached down to pull him up. 

Dolokhov grunted with pain as Sasha helped him lurch upwards. The world spun and went red at the edges, but he stayed standing. 

“Lean into me, Captain, my horse is right over there.”

The men began to move again, bustling around them, back to their horses to rejoin the rest of the regiment. Dolokhov turned to Clara, who had stood alongside him, her hand still holding tightly to his.

“Rodion will take you to the medical tent,” he said, and he knew what a shock all this must be for her, being plunged into this wild world of his.

Yet, he knew her, knew her strength, and she gave him a firm nod, straightening her shoulders. It was a familiar gesture, one he knew intimately, and he was filled with a sudden rush of pride.

“This way, miss,” said Rodion, coming forward and bowing respectfully in front of her.

Clara nodded again, then released Dolokhov’s hand, and he watched until she was safely onto Rodion’s horse, hooves flying towards the camp, before he allowed Sasha to lead him away.

XXXXXXX

Rodion had taken Clara right to the path that led to the infirmary, then galloped off, after she assured him she could walk the rest of the way herself. She needed a moment alone to clear her head. 

She made her way slowly along the sandy walkway; the grim, grey canvas of the medical tent loomed ahead. She took a deep breath of night air. Desert crickets rose in humming nighttime harmony, and far in the distance, cannons boomed.

Sasha was waiting for her at the entrance of the tent, jacket loose, puffing on a pipe. Smoke curled into the night between them. He smiled at her, bowing his head.

“We were not properly introduced. Lieutenant Sasha Anatov, at your service.”

Clara curtsied, smiling at the formal introduction. He continued, watching her carefully.

“You are still standing, which is more than I can say for some of the officer’s wives who join us here.”

Clara thought of Mila, then said, gently,

“Some of them have seen much worse than I.”

He nodded at this, drawing on his pipe thoughtfully.

“And you will see more still.”

She lifted her chin in slight defiance, and he chuckled. 

“And yet, something tells me that Captain Dolokhov would not marry some ornamental, blushing rose.” His gaze raked her over quickly, top to bottom, appreciative. “Or at least, not one without spirit.”

Clara grinned, liking this blunt comrade of Fedya’s. There was a shared moment of peace, then she could keep her patience no longer.

Sasha sensed this, and shook out his pipe, standing straight.

“I will not torture you with waiting. He is much better now that he is sitting down in one place, though we had a devil of a time stopping him from standing right back up and going in search of you. He’s waiting for you.”

“Am I -” she gestured towards the entrance. Sasha nodded. 

“Women are allowed. Appreciated, even, for their helping hands.” He raised his eyebrows. “If you can stand it.”

Clara gazed at him levelly.

Sasha chuckled again, and stood aside, ready to open the flap of canvas. Clara stepped forward. The smell of sweat rose to greet her, and the slight, sickening smell of rot. Broken sobbing could be heard from just within. 

Clara met Sasha’s eyes. 

“Spirit, remember,” he whispered, and she set her shoulders, walking through.

She entered a dim, candlelit world of bandaged limbs, of restless bodies shifting and hands clenched on pallets. Some soldiers were sitting up, and doctors and a few women roved around, quiet and efficient. Moonlight filtered through slits in the canvas; the heat was still stifling. 

Clara’s eyes jumped from body to body, roving over both grimacing and still faces, her heart clenching. She passed a mattress where a young man moaned, his hand reaching out to grip her wrist.

“Please,” he begged, dark eyes glazed with fever. His other arm ended at the elbow in a bloodied bundle of linen. 

Clara paused, putting her hand into the one that had sought hers, feeling faint. She must keep going. She squeezed the hand, then let go. She wove through more bodies, more muffled cries. 

One foot in front of the other, and then, there he was. Relief slammed into her; he was sitting up.

He looked tired, though, and worn out with pain; his whole body was hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees. His head was down, his eyes closed. Stripped to his trousers and boots, his chest was bare, glistening with sweat. She could see the frightening gash on his back from where she stood; it ran from his neck to the bottom of his shoulder, shining black in the weak light. 

His dark hair was soaked through, wet curls dripping sweat onto the dirt floor. This depleted stillness was such a contrast between every image and memory she had of him, so at odds with the glinting eyes and laughing mouth and restless man she knew.

She wanted to pull her to him, to cry out, to kiss him, to take him away from this place with its grim sights and sounds. She put a shaking hand over her mouth, fighting against an urge to scream.

Instead, she kept walking forward. He looked up, opening his eyes at her approach. She sat carefully down on a rough chair in front of him, and he held out his hand to hers and gave her a dazzling smile. Clara felt another wave of relief at the firmness of his grip and the clear expression: his sharp intensity was back in place. 

“I will not have you worried for me, Clara: this is nothing.”

If he could be brave, so could she. She laughed, teasing.

“Of course not. This is nothing but a scratch, Captain.”

Her eyes traveled to the wound on his shoulder, and she felt the blood drain from her face. 

“Look at me,” Fedya commanded her, and she brought her eyes back to his. 

“Just a scratch,” he said again, and brought their joined hands to his lips. “Yes?”

Clara nodded, swallowing against queasiness. 

A doctor came bustling over, stained apron on and wearing a bright, businesslike expression. 

“Ah, you are ready!” He gave Clara a cursory nod, then began peering at Dolokhov’s shoulder.

“With some luck and rest, this will not kill you, Captain, but it will put you out of action for a good while. You will be unable to use your right arm much, if at all, for a time.”

“There is nothing wrong with my left,” said Fedya a bit grumpily, breathing heavily through his nose as the doctor prodded the edges of the wound. 

Clara smiled, shaking her head slightly, then caught Fedya grinning at her. 

The doctor sluiced a pitcher of water onto the wound. Fedya grit his teeth, and an animal-sounding growl rose up in his throat as red-stained liquid ran down his body. Clara kept her eyes away from the gaping rawness of his shoulder and resolutely on Dolokhov’s; he had not looked away from her. 

“There now, I can see what I’m doing,” said the doctor cheerfully, holding up a curved needle.

“Ready?” he asked, and Clara had a feeling it was for her benefit and not Dolokhov’s.

Dolokhov gave a short nod.

At the edge of her vision, over Dolokhov’s shoulder, the doctor flashed the needle down. Dolokhov gave a huge, shuddering flinch, and a muscle jumped in his jaw, but nothing more.

As the doctor began stitching in earnest, Clara found herself overcome with an unfamiliar type of hesitancy: she had not shared so much as a room with him for over a year, and was suddenly aware, on an immediate level, of being very near to this battle-worn, half-naked captain who was also her husband.

Their courtship had been a strange and forbidden one; it was filled with gaps and long periods of absence, broken only by stolen moments of passion and loaded conversations. Marriage had brought them only a night or two of life together before he had left for this war, and it was overwhelming to suddenly be in his presence, which seemed so suddenly and overwhelmingly _male_.

And she was remembering, with swift and intense clarity, the intoxicating, simmering physicality that had always lain between them.

Fighting underneath the Persian sun had scattered a constellation of freckles across his nose, and his jawline was bristled and unshaven. She was inches away from his bare chest, and was able to feel the heat radiating off of him. He was breathing quite calmly, but Clara could see the muscles in his abdomen flex in reaction to each painful stitch, could see the damp chest hair and cross-hatches of fresh and fading scars rise and fall with each breath. 

As if he could hear her thoughts, he gave her a lazy, knowing smile. 

“Shall I distract you?” she said, pleased to note that her voice sounded brisk and light. 

“You are already doing a fine job of it,” he said, his voice low, his eyes roaming her figure in such a way to make her cheeks burn.

She glanced at the doctor, who was working away, then back at Dolokhov’s face.

“I should like to see how cool _you_ would be, sitting across from me barely dressed, if our roles were reversed,” she whispered fiercely.

His smile widened, and he tugged on their hands, pulling her in close to whisper in her ear, his voice strained slightly with pain.

“What makes you think I haven’t been imagining you naked and panting beneath me since you sat down-”

“Sit up straighter, Captain,” ordered the doctor, and Dolokhov released her, mercifully giving her a moment to turn her head, cheeks flaming with heat.

“You are obviously feeling better,” she said sardonically, but beneath the relief and the cascade of the day’s emotions, another, familiar one was rising: desire. And it was not unwelcome.

In the way that had occupied many of her dreams, his smile turned slightly predatory. 

“Still not afraid to challenge me.” His thumb traced a slow pattern on her hand. “You never were.” 

His expression turned serious.

“I cannot believe you are here. I requested that I send for you, and yet I didn’t truly allow myself-.”

He looked down then, breaking their eye contact for the first time.

“I know this is not the life that one offers a new wife-”

“Fedya,” Clara said, unable to put words to her feelings. She squeezed his hand, forcing him to look back up at her.

A momentary glance, and a year of unspoken words between them. His throat worked, his eyes burning into hers. 

“Finished,” said the doctor with sudden jubilation, and Clara blinked in surprise. The doctor started bustling his kit back together, still talking.

“When you report tomorrow let it be known that you are not to see action without my written approval. I know you, Captain, so do not think I am not serious. A week at the very least. In the meantime, you are to spend one night of rest here, before returning to your rooms at the barracks.”

He ran an experienced eye over the stitching before coming around to look at Dolokhov.

“I hear your regiment held the territory for two days. A fine job.” Then, with a last parting bow, he disappeared, and Dolokhov and Clara were alone together, for the first time in too long.

He looked at her, then spoke softly to the ground.

“Will you stay a moment, my darling?”

Clara’s heart sped up at the familiar endearment, still faster at the look that had been in his eyes.

She looked, finally, at Dolokhov’s shoulder, and the new line of black stitches marching across the inflamed skin. 

“I will stay as long as you wish,” she said, and before she could absorb the relief in his eyes, he tugged her up, the strength in his arms shocking considering his state, to sit next to him on the pallet.

They sat staring, momentarily speechless as they drank each other in; 

“When did you arrive?”

“Just this afternoon.”

“Did someone show you to my rooms?”

She nodded, still studying his face, observing the new lines there, trying to re-learn the man in front of her. 

“Mila accompanied me, from Petersburg.”

Dolokhov’s eyebrows shot up.

“Aleks - I asked as soon as they brought me in, and I was told he is alive.”

Realization hit Clara. 

“He was the one you went back for.”

He nodded, and let go of her hands to rub his jaw, and there was something about the weary gesture that reminded her of how vulnerable he was, of the man she had fallen for. 

“Still reckless,” she said, but she was smiling. She placed a gentle palm against his cheek. 

“I couldn’t leave him,” he said, closing his eyes against the feel of her hand. 

“Still brave,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes again, and the love she saw there steadied her. Her emotions were in chaos, but he was her anchor.

“I have never forgotten my promise to come back to you,” he said, solemn, and his left hand came up and brushed a curl gently away from her face. She leaned forward, into his warmth that was at once both familiar and strange.

Their lips touched, the moment suspended, then he was kissing her slowly, and sweetly. She melted willingly into him, not caring about the dirt and sweat, the state of her ruined dress long forgotten, and his good arm was around her, pulling her closer to him. She let her hands drift up his chest, her fingers exploring the scars and skin beneath the soft hair. He moaned, soft and delicious, into her mouth.

“Your arm-” she managed, trying to rein in the lust that was rapidly building, trying to maintain decorum.

“I only need the one,” he said, and pulled her effortlessly onto his lap, and this time, the kiss was anything but sweet, his tongue stroking hers with purpose. Her body was thrumming in response, his chest warm and hard against hers, and it was all a glorious, euphoric reminder that he was here, and he was all right. 

She could feel his obvious desire, and the way he groaned as she readjusted herself sent a delicious thrill to her centre, warm and intoxicating. 

_More_.

She was quickly forgetting their surroundings, forgetting that he was injured and tired; she only wanted to make him groan again, to feel him inside her, deep and insistent and alive-

“Captain Dolokhov!” came a shocked voice, and Clara pulled back from the kiss as if someone had doused them with water.

The doctor stood beside the pallet, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Fedya’s arm stayed firmly around her waist, and Clara could feel his pulse, beating strong in his erection beneath her.

“Yes, doctor?” said Fedya, giving the man a slow, lazy smile.

“I appreciate that your wife is newly returned to you, and I appreciate your rank is considerably higher than mine, but in this tent, you are to follow _my_ orders. And I believe those orders were to rest. Were they not?”

“They were,” said Dolokhov, offering a serious nod.

“Excellent. Some sleep will do you good, Captain. My apologies,” and the doctor bowed to Clara, then turned and strode away. 

Fedya and Clara exchanged a chastened, amused look, then burst out laughing.

“His face!” Clara grinned. “I felt as if I were a child getting scolded!”

“I cannot help myself,” Dolokhov returned, kissing her neck. 

Reason was returning to her, and she was aware now of just how hot his skin was. 

“Fedya, he is right,” she said, and Dolokhov groaned again, but this time with resignation, and she knew the battle was won.

He lay down slowly with a grimace, turning slightly onto his uninjured side, and looked up at her, eyes fathomless in the dark.

“You are here,” he said, smiling, and she returned it.

“Yes,” she agreed softly, and reached to the basin of water standing next to the pallet, withdrawing a wet cloth and wringing it out. She folded it carefully and placed it onto his brow, and a tremor ran through him. 

“I am here,” she repeated, and stroked a hand through his sweaty hair. He closed his eyes, and Clara could see the tension slowly leaving him, his muscles relaxing.

“I am here, Fedya,” she whispered. “I will not leave your side.” 

She continued to thread her fingers gently through his curls, and within moments, he was finally, peacefully, asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider yourself warned: thar be smut, ahead.


	4. Re-acquaintance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov recovers, Clara gets used to military life, and all the while, they must re-learn their life together.

_He had been dreaming of her. She was lying in their bed, bare to him, the soft evening sunshine illuminating her skin, her smile both knowing and inviting. He kissed the skin on her thigh, reveling in the softness of it, taking his time. Her hips lifted, a soft moan escaping as he reached his destination, blowing gently. Another moan, and he grinned, rubbing his stubble on her thigh. Then, without warning, he flattened his tongue right against her, licking up. Her body jolted, her hands gripping his hair as he savoured and licked, her moans changing into breathy, rapid pants. Her orgasm shattered him as much as it did her, his heart pounding as he lifted himself up, meeting her hooded, glassy gaze. The love in her hazel eyes undid him, that careful reserve she always cultivated, melting for him._

_Always, forever, only, for him._

Pain flared in his body, and the dream dissolved, splintering into pieces of hard reality. Dolokhov’s shoulder was a steady throb, but some internal warning fought against moving too quickly. He lay still, awareness filtering slowly in. The heat of the medical tent. The background of muted pain. Yesterday’s battle, and last night.

His eyes flew open.

Clara-

Was there, sitting beside him. That part hadn’t been a dream. She smiled.

“Good morning, Captain.”

He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out rough.

“Good morning.”

The tent was lit with bright sunlight, and Dolokhov judged it to be far later in the day than he would normally be awake.

“You were sleeping so deeply, I didn’t want to wake you.”

She stood, stretching.

“The doctor came by; your fever broke after midnight. You are given leave to return to your quarters, but not active duty.”

Clara closed her eyes, rotating her shoulders slowly.

He took the opportunity to study her. She was wearing the same dress she had on yesterday, and it took him a few moments to realize that the dark, rust coloured stains on it were from his own blood. Her hair was coming loose and curling wildly around her face, purple smudges shadowing the pale skin under her eyes. His heart was drumming painfully in his chest as he drank her in; his eyes savouring details long forgotten.

He spoke again.

“You remained with me, the whole night through.”

She opened her eyes, watching him with her clear, frank gaze that he definitely had _not_ forgotten. 

They looked at each other, and despite the current that always ran between them, the past year of separation was a wide gulf. In the stark brightness of day, their fevered, desperate emotions of the night before seemed a world away.

He wanted to pull her to him, to taste her, to hold her and remind them both of what they were to each other. Dolokhov opened his mouth, and a gruff voice broke the moment.

“Captain Dolokhov!” It was Corporal Goncharov, his rotund face creased with age and merriment as he came close. 

Fedya struggled to sit up, biting back a curse at the interruption. A bolt of pain ricocheted from his shoulder to his neck as he hoisted himself somewhat upright, and gave a salute.

The Corporal’s eyes had already traveled to Clara, and he bowed. 

“Clara Dolokhovna, I presume. I granted the allowance for him to write and have you join us. Your beauty is a welcome addition to the regiment, my dear.”

He gave Dolokhov a wink, then peered at the black stitches marching a line across the skin at Fedya’s shoulder.

“I heard your regiment held the line, Captain. Not only that, but you returned with all of your men. Report to my office this afternoon, but you have earned a rest.”

___________

Rest, Clara quickly learned, was a relative term in a military camp. Within minutes of Dolokhov waking up, word spread, and soon there was a steady stream of men coming to see him. Other captains, soldiers, his superiors; there seemed to be no man in the camp that didn’t want to stop by and visit, and all of them brought reminders of what needed to be done: training, packing, discussions and strategies. 

He was popular, Clara noted, and respected. Despite the fatigue he must be feeling, he matched their energy: he hid the shadows under his eyes, his ashen face, his grimaces of pain well.

He was in his element.

All of the qualities she remembered about him, all the best parts, were brought together in this environment. His sharpness, his energy, his bravery and steeliness: he was clearly a good Captain. 

He was eager to leave, reluctant to stay and keep a bed from another, and Clara was in no way attached to the grim medical tent, with its muted sights and sounds of suffering. 

Easing up from the pallet, taking his uniform jacket with him, she was more than glad as they left the tent, emerging into the hazy afternoon heat. A quick lunch in the barracks, and Fedya was quickly surrounded by more men, more questions, more tasks. He pressed a kiss to Clara’s hair, and was swept almost immediately away, called away by duty.

The day passed. Fedya had various men to report to. Clara returned to the medical tent, eager to see how Aleks fared. She passed a group of women to the side of the infirmary, sleeves rolled up on their dresses as they washed the blood-soaked clothes and bandages brought from the tent in tubs of water. Clara made a note to return to them later.

Aleks lay, sweat-soaked and worryingly still, on his pallet. Mila’s smile was a watery echo of her usual one. Clara took over the bedside vigil and insisted that the girl go wash and rest. Mila was reluctant at first, but saw reason eventually, and Clara settled in for the afternoon.

Evening arrived, and a medical officer brought Clara a plated dinner, along with a note from Fedya. She opened the paper to read his wild scrawl:

_“You are here with me, yet I am still forced to be content with letter-writing. Sasha tells me you are with Aleks. My own dinner will be served alongside the plans for my regiment’s next march, in the Corporal’s meeting. I will be late returning to our quarters tonight._

__

__

A year away from you passed more quickly than this day has, knowing you are close and unable to see you.”

Clara smiled at the brisk, frustrated tone, then sighed as the last rays of sunshine disappeared from the horizon. Mila returned, and her soft face fell as she saw her husband’s unchanged state. 

“I thought he might be awake, and waiting-” tears welled up, and Clara rose, taking Mila’s hands in hers. 

“That moment will arrive, Mila. I know it.” She squeezed her friend’s hands, insisted on Mila eating something, and left the tent again, glad of the fresh air. 

A trio of officer’s wives were still gathered at the washing station in the darkening light, working away by the light of a nearby fire. Clara approached, restless and desperate to be given a useful task. 

It was laborious and rough. The lye soap stung her knuckles, the low tubs caused the muscles in her shoulders to burn and ache, and the constant scrubbing and ringing of linen was a strain on her wrists. Despite the dubious welcome the other women gave her, they quickly realized Clara was not as expected, and soon she had them laughing. It reminded her of the rural childhood she left behind decades ago, and it was soothing to lose herself in hard work.

When the women declared enough, they bade each other goodnight, and the eldest woman gave Clara a warm embrace. Wet, exhausted, and worn out, Clara walked slowly back to the barracks. 

She opened the door to their quarters with no small amount of anticipation, and was greeted by silence. In the bedchamber, Fedya lay sprawled on the mattress, uniform jacket off but shirt, trousers and boots still on, fast asleep. 

Clara had just enough energy to pull off his boots and trousers. He barely stirred. She left his shirt on, not willing to trouble his shoulder; she pulled off her own dress and underthings, then lay next to him, curling into his uninjured side. She pushed a gentle hand into his soft hair, tracing a finger down his cheek, along his jaw, to his mouth, across the scar on his upper lip. 

Exhaustion pulled her under; she slept. 

_____________________________

When Clara woke the next morning, it was to an empty bed, and another note. 

“I am training with my regiment today. You are included in my plans tonight. I shall see you at the officers dinner.”

She took her time that morning, grateful to finally wash two days’ worth of grime and desert grit away. She cleaned her teeth and dressed in another light dress, spending some time on her hair, choosing a loose knot over a more intricate style.

There was a hint of anticipation in the air. 

_You are included in my plans tonight._

Fedya said nothing without meaning it; and she understood the double meaning behind his words, as he meant for her to. She had received some shocking promises in his letters over the past year; words that had brought heat to her entire body when reading them. 

A last look in the mirror, and she left their room, looking forward to a busy day that would keep her mind occupied.

________________________________

During a break in the early afternoon, she found Fedya’s regiment without much trouble; everyone seemed to know who she was, and it was another lesson for her with regards to the close-knit atmosphere of the encampment. Privacy, she was discovering, must be near impossible. 

The ninth regiment was combat training, which meant Clara found them in a long enclosure with a hastily-built, rough roof. The men were scattered about; some fencing, some standing and leaning against the walls, watching and calling out to the ones fighting. 

Fedya moved among them, stripped to his shirt and trousers. He had bathed; he looked much refreshed, although he was moving slowly, and he held his right side stiffly. He wore it well, but Clara could tell how much it was still paining him.

His sword was in his left hand, and when one of his men tried a sudden attack on him, he turned and blocked it with such lightning speed that Clara gasped. Fedya was grinning, but she could see the slight grimace behind it. 

“I appreciate the attempt, Koyla, but move with your feet, not your weapon,” Fedya said, and Clara saw the officer nod, absorbing the instruction even as their swords flashed. Fedya kept his movements sparse; he had begun curling his wounded shoulder slightly inward, but Clara knew his pride wouldn’t let him stop. The other men had stopped to gather, watching their Captain face off one of their own. Clara looked among their faces, at the admiration etched on every one of them.

Fedya feinted, then ended the brief skirmish with the tip of his sword against Koyla’s chest. 

“Footwork,” smiled Fedya, and Koyla laughed. Fedya paced in the other direction, whipping his sword down through the air.

“My wife has joined us this morning, gentlemen. She is standing in the doorway just there, so might I suggest that you guard your language while you improve your technique.” 

Thirty-odd faces turned to Clara, who curtsied. Chatter and movement resumed among the men as Fedya walked slowly towards her. He was breathing hard, and sweat glistened at the temples of his hair. The brief fight had tired him, but his green eyes were clear and vibrant as they roamed her face, and Clara was happy to see that the shadows of pain and fatigue in them were dimmed.

“You knew I was here,” she said, smiling. 

“I knew it as soon as you entered.” 

They regarded each other; and Clara was once again struck by a confusing multitude of emotions: relief, uncertainty, desire. He had always overwhelmed her; it was both comforting and disconcerting to know that he still had that effect.

Fedya, forever attuned to her mood, took her hand.

“You received my note, this morning.”

Clara’s heart beat faster. 

“Yes.”

“You will join me for dinner, then.”

His expression had changed slightly, his eyes less playful, and more intense. 

“It will no doubt give us an opportunity to become reacquainted with each other,” said Clara, latching onto a touch of formality under his heated gaze.

He stroked a rough thumb across her knuckles.

“Indeed.”

He tugged suddenly on her hand and leaned in, pulling her slightly towards him and whispering into her ear.

“And believe me when I say, Clara, that I plan to become reacquainted with every part of you.” He flicked his tongue gently to her earlobe, sending a shiver down her spine. "One way or another, I will be inside you this evening, and I will have you begging me for release."

Goosebumps erupted along her skin, and she drew her head back, raising her eyes to his, meeting the fire in his with her own. 

“Is that a promise?”

She registered the surprise in his eyes, followed swiftly by delight, then a darkening determination.

“Yes,” he breathed.

“Well,” she said, lifting her chin in challenge. “We shall see.” 

She barely registered the flare of desire in his face before she turned on her heel and walked out of the training barracks, aware of Fedya’s eyes following her, his gaze fixed hotly between her shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this whole thing because I wanted to write Dolokhov in battle, and Dolokhov-smut. Guess which one is coming up next. :D


	5. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov finally gets what he wants, in other words, Clara. :D

Clara and Dolokhov did not see each other until dinner that night; the able-bodied superior officers and captains (and their wives) from the seventh and ninth regiments were invited to the main house, to dine in style with Corporal Goncharov and his wife. 

Clara had returned to their quarters to bathe again and to change into something more elegant and suited to the occasion. The dust and the heat were relentless, and her heart told her that she wanted to look her best tonight; Fedya would most definitely keep his promise. He had been and gone at some point, presumably also to bathe and dress; there was a single desert rose lying on her pillow, which she placed in her hair.

At dinner, the company waited for the sixteen men of honour to make a grand entrance into the large dining room; they entered, in formation and full uniform, to thunderous applause. Dolokhov marched by Clara and threw her a wink, and she winked right back as she clapped, causing him to grin.

They were seated, and the long tables were set with more food than Clara had eaten in days. She was happy to see that beside her, Fedya’s appetite had returned. The meal passed in pleasant, typical gossip, the type of which both Clara and Fedya had little patience for. She found her attention waning often, and caught herself wondering whether or not she could see if she could excuse herself and go find a library.

Fedya’s hand came to rest on her thigh, and he leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“I want you so badly I cannot think of anything else.” Her spine tingled, but Clara kept her eyes steady ahead, watching Corporal Goncharov’s mouth move across from her, and hearing nothing but Fedya.

“I am done waiting. I will have you tonight, here,” he continued, whispering against her skin as his hand gently and casually brushed a stray curl at her neck.

She had expected this; craved it, and heat was rushing to her cheeks, desire was sweeping through her; she felt languid, liquid, drunk. 

She whispered futile words back, turning her head slightly. 

“We are at a dinner party.”

She looked up into his eyes, and saw such burning hunger there that she had to drop her gaze again. He leaned closer and dropped a hot, brief kiss to the nape of her neck. His next words were spoken low and solemn. 

“You know that will not stop me. It never has.”

Her breath caught; she was halfway between incredulity and desire. A memory surfaced with alarming, sudden clarity; an alcove during a ball, her back against the wall and her skirts bunched at her thighs, Fedya’s fingers inside her. She tried to focus on spearing food onto her fork, but could not heed anything except his breath, warm against her neck.

“I am a determined man. I want your pleasure, and I will have it.” 

Clara felt her entire body flush.

“What are you whispering so intently to your wife about, Captain Dolokhov?” 

Corporal Goncharov’s voice boomed loudly in their direction, surprising Clara so much that she dropped her fork. She had almost forgotten where they were.

“I hear your wife had a harp delivered here, and was telling Clara that we must see it,” said Fedya smoothly, leaning back and placing his good arm casually on the back of Clara’s chair. It gave her a chance to recover, and take a sip of wine. 

The Corporal’s young wife clapped her hands. 

“Of course, my dear Clara! Let us go right away.”

She stood and held out her hand to Clara, who gave Dolokhov a playful lift of her eyebrows before allowing herself to be swept away from the dining table. He grinned in return, lifting his own drink to his lips, downing it one swallow.

Another half hour passed, and the party proceeded from the dining table to the front room. Clara received a tour of the music room from the Corporal’s wife, as well as more than a little gossip, and they returned to the rest of the party. Cards were brought out, and vodka, and the general mood went from merry to a bit raucous. Soldiers, officers and their wives were all too happy to spend an evening indulging purely in pleasure, and spirits were high. 

After a quick game of cards, Fedya stood, holding out his hand to Clara, and she took it, her heart pounding. He led her out of the busy room, and they turned left down a carpeted hall. They passed a few inviting-looking alcoves before he quietly lead them into a small office.

Clara turned at the sound of the door shutting, seeing, as she knew she would, Fedya’s tall form. The office was dark, but moonlight filtered in. Fedya took a few steps towards her, and she backed up, the back of her knees hitting the edge of the officer’s desk.

Fedya took another step, his eyes not leaving hers, his expression predatory. Her heartbeat picked up speed, and anticipation prickled deliciously at her skin.

“Your shoulder is not fully healed,” pointed out Clara, uselessly, she knew.

“It’s damn well healed enough.” His eyes on hers were dark, hungry.

“I made a promise to you, earlier today,” he said, and his voice was deep, causing a wave of heat to rush low, between her thighs.

“I don’t quite recall it,” Clara returned, aiming for a flippant tone, knowing it would stoke him. She knew very well what she was doing; the past few days of abstinence had grated on them both, and she wanted this as badly as he did.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He took another step. He was inches away from her, so close she had to look up into his eyes, into their dangerous intensity.

“Do you not?”

She shook her head, unable to speak. She felt light-headed, filled with a yearning so acute she could practically taste it.

“Tell me what I promised you.”

He reached out with his good arm and put a firm hand on her waist, taking the last step and closing the space between them, pressing himself against her.

He ran a tongue across his upper lip, along the scar there, and she tracked the movement, her body anticipating that mouth on hers, on her skin. She flicked her gaze back up to his and became trapped there; his eyes glittering with lust. He bent his head towards hers, and she lifted her chin in anticipation in one of his hard, hungry kisses, but he brought his other hand up and gently turned her face to the side. His lips hovered teasingly close to her skin.

“What did I promise, Clara?” his breath was light and warm against the shell of her ear, the ends of his dark hair tickling her cheek. He let his lips brush a whisper of a kiss at her jaw, then sucked gently on her earlobe, eliciting a low moan from her. She tried to turn her chin in his hand, seeking his mouth, but he drew his head back, eyes dark with intent.

“I-“ she stopped speaking as he parted her legs gently, resting one knee between them. She rubbed herself against his thigh, unable to stop herself. He allowed her one or two moments, then tightened his hand at her waist, stilling her.

Clara didn’t trust herself to speak, she was so consumed with want. Every nerve in her body seemed attuned to the throbbing spot between her legs, and she shook her head slightly. The corners of his lips turned slightly up.

“Shall I help you remember?”

He withdrew his knee, and every nerve in her body protested. She pushed helplessly against his iron grip at her waist-

Then he settled himself back between her thighs, and ground his erection against her core in one slow, deliberate motion. Clara’s head fell back at the contact, and she closed her eyes, unable to stop the animal sound that escaped her. Fedya kept his good arm around her waist, supporting her, while his other hand went up and his palm cupped the back of her head, threading his fingers into the loose curls of her hair. He tugged her head forward, not exactly rough, but not gently, either.

“I said I would have you begging for release.” His voice was so jagged it was practically a growl.

“A gentleman-“ Clara gasped out, as Fedya’s lips descended on her neck, soft and warm, as he kissed a trail across her skin, his hips circled against hers again,

“keeps-“ she tried to continue, but his mouth traced lower, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her breast, his lips warm through the fabric,

“his promises,” Clara gasped, as he skimmed back up and nipped lightly at her collarbone.

“I’m no gentleman,” rasped Fedya, and finally brought his mouth to hers. She opened her lips to his eagerly, and they both moaned as he swept his tongue inside. He began grinding his cock against her in a steady rhythm.

Clara moaned again into his mouth in gratification. Fedya’s tongue was making leisurely, deep sweeps in her mouth in tandem with his hips, each stroke of both a tease of what he wasn’t yet giving her. The reality of his hardness right against her, of such intense sensation after so long a separation, was so fierce that she could feel herself on the edge already, her toes curling in her shoes, goosebumps breaking out all over her skin, a deep clenching low in her belly- 

He drew his hips back abruptly, stopping the kiss and lifting his head.

Clara whined, reaching for him and grabbing a fistful of his jacket, the sudden emptiness causing her to sag into him. 

He kept his arm around her, supporting her trembling legs as he shook his head.

“Not yet, Clara. I want it to be worth the wait.”

He dropped his other hand from the back of her head and tugged it gently behind her knee. Clara lifted her leg, hooking it at his waist, knowing what he wanted. She obliged, jumping into him slightly as he lifted her with his good arm the rest of the way and set her on the desk. 

As soon as she was on it, he began bunching the fabric of her dress higher, and his hand smoothed up the bare skin of her outer thigh, his palm warm. She reached up and placed her own hand on the back of his neck, guiding his mouth back to hers. As they kissed, he continued to caress the skin on her thigh, traveling higher and higher, until he brushed his knuckles lightly across her clit. Clara moaned again, parting her legs wider. His knuckles brushed against her again, and Fedya made a low sound deep in his chest.

“So wet,” he breathed against her lips, as his knuckles continued to make feather light grazes back and forth.

“Fedya,” Clara said, every muscle in her body strung tight, the throbbing need between her legs making her dizzy.

“Yes?”

“Please, I want to-” Clara licked her lips, unsure of the phrase, unable to describe what she meant, and could only buck her hips against his hand, desperate.

Fedya pressed hot kisses to her jaw, to her neck. 

“I know, darling.”

He lifted his head and looked at her, eyes glazed with lust as they roamed her flushed face, and he shook his head in a gesture reminiscent of disbelief. 

“You are so beautiful like this.” 

No longer the calculated teasing, no longer the predatory intensity; that focus of his was instead all on her, on her pleasure, and on the next pass of his hand at her core, he stopped, pushed her underwear aside, and slipped a finger in.

They both groaned, and he began to move his finger in and out.

“Please, I-” Clara panted, and he added another, increasing the pace. Her fingers at the nape of his neck tightened in the curls of his hair, gripping hard.

Clara was making high-pitched keening noises as his fingers pumped inside her, the gathering storm on the edge of breaking over her-

“That’s right,” he encouraged, his voice guttural with lust.

“Let go, Clara,” commanded Fedya, and he pressed his thumb to her clit, circling slowly, and her vision exploded into fireworks behind her eyes, her body a thrumming, clenching wave of pleasure.

She blinked, stars still showering behind her eyelids. She realized that he had his good arm wrapped around her waist, holding her up against him.

“Oh, god,” Clara stated quietly into his chest. Her whole body was blissfully loose and relaxed; she felt as if she had drunk a great quantity of wine.

“Just ‘Captain’ will do,” said Fedya, and Clara lifted her head to see his soft, teasing smile. His eyes were still heavy with desire.

Clara rolled her eyes fondly, and his grin widened; it was impish and boyish. That smile of his made her heart skip a beat, the pulse seeming to echo everywhere in her body.

He kissed her, soft and warm and unhurried, then pressed a trail from her lips to the swell of her breast at the neckline of her dress. His hands danced down her sides, to the dip of her waist and back up to the edges of her breasts. Heat began to build again, and Clara arched her back, encouraging more. He took the hint, nosing the fabric of her dress out of the way and taking a nipple in his mouth, sucking gently. His hand cupped her other breast, and he rolled her other nipple between his fingers.

She bucked her hips against him again, and he began rubbing his erection against her. She moved with him, their bodies creating tortuous, exquisite friction. His good arm stroked down her waist, cupping her bottom and bringing them closer.

“God, yes,” gasped Clara, tangling her fingers in his hair, tugging his mouth back up to hers. He complied, his tongue making deep, greedy strokes, their pace building.

She broke the kiss and scooted back, her hands flying to his belt and undoing the buckle. She undid the buttons on his trousers and her fingers found him immediately; hot and rock hard. She stroked down the shaft once, and he groaned helplessly, like a man in pain, into her mouth. She stroked again, luxuriating in the way his body jerked against hers; pure, muscled, male reaction. 

Finally, she got the last button undone, and he sprang free, heavy and swollen into her hand. She would never get tired of that contrast; that silky smooth skin, the delicate veins tracing over the triumphant hardness, that centre of his vitality. 

As Clara took him in her hand, he closed his eyes, the cords in his neck standing out. Then he opened his eyes, she let go, and he pulled her close, her slick wetness barely grazing the tip of him. 

He swore, then stilled, his eyes burning into hers. Another rush of heat licked at her, and she let out a soft breath of air, fighting for control. She wanted him buried to the hilt inside her.

“Fedya,” she whispered, and he pushed forward, sinking into her in one smooth stroke. He swore again, his head falling forward to her neck, and she felt him take a deep, shuddering breath. Her own mouth had dropped open at the sudden fullness, at the overwhelming feeling of him inside her. She panted slightly.

He sensed it; had stilled. He turned his head and kissed the column of her exposed throat. 

“Relax,” he said softly, his low timbre vibrating into her skin. He shifted, grunting softly with pleasure and effort as he braced his weight, pulling her hips to the edge of the desk, keeping them joined. He lifted her hands to the back of his neck, and she knit them together.

His green eyes were glints of wolfish intent, and he began to work his thumb against her. Pleasure swept over her, and her hands dropped to his shoulders, pulling him closer and their bodies flush, and he bottomed out inside her.

“Clara,” he groaned, and began to move inside her in deep and steady strokes, a careful rhythm building, and soon Clara was taking in desperate gusts of air, her eyes screwed shut as each of his thrusts brought her to a sublime edge of pleasure and back.

“Look at me, Clara,” came the rough order, and she opened her eyes to see Fedya, his face a mixture of bliss and concentration; concentration that was entirely on her. His nimble fingers were working her clit again, and the edges of reality began to melt, her body shaking and trembling. The rush of ecstasy came, hard and all-consuming, and the last thing she was aware of was Fedya's curse as his own release hit.

Clara became slowly aware of a hand stroking lightly down her spine. She smiled into the darkness, and Fedya sensed it, because he lifted his head, eyes searching hers in the dark. His face was an open expression of adoration. The past hour had dissolved some of the tension of the past year apart, and they looked at each other in comfortable silence.

“Happy?”

Clara nodded. 

“I was thinking about something a very rich and well-known Countess said to me, a week ago. About our scandalous marriage.”

He nodded, looking slightly wary.

Clara stroked his hair back from his forehead.

“She was criticizing my choice of such a wild husband. He does seem to seduce me in the most inappropriate places.”

He grinned, and Clara laughed softly. 

His hands traced her collarbone with exquisite gentleness. His grin faded into a thoughtful expression.

“She is right, in a way; I never wanted to marry. I assumed I was ill-suited to making such a promise, to holding to such a vow.”

She placed a hand on his chest, smiling as the memories of their meeting, so many months ago, rose between them.

“Yet by the time I returned from fighting Napoleon, I thought I would die if I could not have you as my wife.”

Clara looked up at him, teasing.

“And so, Captain Dolokhov? What is your assessment of marriage?”

He bent his head and gave her a gentle kiss. 

“I have you in my life, so I am generally inclined to think well of it.”

He nipped playfully at her bottom lip, and she laughed. Then he looked at her, green eyes serious. "You are the best promise I ever made, Clara." Footsteps and voices rose outside the door. Laughter and the sudden swell of music could be heard coming from the front room.

Clara sighed, and Fedya slipped from her, and began to button up his trousers. He helped her down from the desk, wincing slightly as he took some of her weight when she jumped to the floor. She looked at him, attempting to smooth her dress.

“We should rejoin the party, an then I think we should say good night and return to our quarters. You've most definitely taken care of me, and now I'd like to take care of you and that shoulder.”

He nodded, then walked to her and brought his forehead to rest against hers.

“Yes. I suppose I am rather tired.”

Clara burst out laughing.

“Of course you are! Although I am astonished you even admit to it.”

“Perhaps I just want to get you into a proper bed.”

Clara gave him a fond shake of her head. 

“Come along, Captain.” 

She looped her arm through his, and they left the office, walking back into the quiet hallway and back to the party.


	6. Collision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fedya and Clara's two worlds collide, and it causes some friction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had always wanted to write a Fedya-at-war fic, where he has to reconcile his previous life of recklessness with his new one with Clara. It all comes to a head with this chapter.

Despite his exhaustion, and despite his shoulder, Clara could not convince Fedya to leave the dinner and return to their quarters. As tired as he said he had been, he was also determined to stay and make the most of the party.

Clara watched as he tossed back alcohol as if it were water. He shouted indignantly along with political conversations, laughed loudly, and gambled recklessly at cards. The whole night, his face was a wide-open invitation to play, challenge, drink.

He wouldn’t let Clara stray too far; he was constantly pulling her body close: tugging her against him when standing, arms reaching around her, his nose nuzzling at her neck, his lips seeking hers time and time again. 

The evening went past midnight, and at the card table, he pulled her onto his lap, his kiss hungry and demanding in front of the other men and their wives, his tongue laced with the silver tang of vodka.

There was an insistent drive to his actions; Clara could sense a sort of desperation humming in him. It wasn’t new to her, this subtle undercurrent of his, but she had not seen him pulled along by it for a long while. 

Finally, finally, he followed her out into the desert air, sometime in the early hours of the morning. They undressed and collapsed into bed, Clara grateful for rest, but her mind unable to stop turning over a growing dread.

He slept only an hour before he was awake and drawing her close, whispering her name, his lips coasting across her shoulder, begging for her.

He was inside her within seconds, flipping them so she sat astride him, allowing him to save his shoulder from strain. She moved up and down, making him groan, his eyes not leaving hers, his hands tracing along her breasts, then gripping at her hips, shuddering his release as her world splintered in ecstasy.

After, she lay against his chest, and they both lay silent as he stroked her hair. 

“Fedya.”

“Yes.”

“There is something you’re not saying.”

She sat up, and they looked at each other as Clara voiced the suspicion she had harboured for the past few hours.

“You are leaving tomorrow, to return to battle earlier than predicted.”

He nodded, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. 

Anger flared in Clara, hot and bright. 

“Even though your shoulder isn’t fully healed.”

He lifted his hips beneath her in a slow circle, smiling as he ran his tongue across the scar on his upper lip.

“Have I not proven that my injury is not an issue?”

Clara placed a palm on the centre of his chest, stilling him. 

“What we did this evening-”

“Multiple times,” he purred, with another roll of his hips beneath her,

‘-is quite another matter from being in the middle of a fight on the battlefield,” Clara finished, firmly talking over him.

Fedya’s playful tone grew frustrated.

“I am able to walk, and I can heft a sword in either hand. That is fit enough for the General.”

“But the doctor said-”

“I do not report to the doctor. I report to Goncharov. We are short the men, and the western border must be held.”

“At the cost of more men?” 

“That is war.”

“That is ridiculous.”

She lifted herself away, then got up from the bed, grabbing for a robe and tying it around herself. 

He lay there, his eyes dark.

“I volunteered because the General asked for more captains to lead two regiments.”

Clara knew his mercurial nature, and could see the anger in him, rising to cover his impatience with the injury. Fedya sat up, and the action caused him to cringe deeply with pain, which she could see annoyed him further. His tone was dangerously low.

“May I remind you that I am a Captain.”

“May I remind you, it was a mere two days ago that you could barely stand!”

His eyes flashed angrily at this, but she continued,

“When the General asked for captains, were there not others who could have stood up? Or were you the first on your feet, injury and risk be damned?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He remained silent.

She nodded.

“I thought so.”

He shook his head.

“I am a soldier. You know this, Clara. You know this is my world.”

“Yes, but I am now part of that world as well! I am the family you leave behind, that you must come back to!” 

He rose from the bed, reaching for his breeches, which he put on awkwardly. His exuberance from earlier in the evening had made the injury far worse; the reliance on his good arm never more pronounced as it was now. He struggled to tie the laces one-handed; his other arm hanging stiffly at his side.

Clara reached out a hand to him, her heart aching.

“What if we have children? They will share in this world of yours, as well.”

He looked up at that, emotions crossing his face in quick succession; hope, worry, and a flash of gentleness, before hardening into determination once again. 

“Fedya. You must learn that every risk you take affects more than just yourself.”

He began pacing, defiant.

“I am leading the fourth regiment to the Shamkor River in three hours, and it is my duty and honour to do so.”

Clara clenched her fist against the tide of her own emotions, and her voice was heavy with them.

“You are not fit for battle, going like this.”

He stopped pacing abruptly and gave her a hard look. Neither of them spoke. He shook his head, his mouth a thin line, then turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Clara sank to the bed, and buried her head in her hands.

*******

Dolokhov pounded down the stairs and threw himself into the fresh air; his fellow officers and soldiers already awake and busy around him. The military camp was a constant, working mechanism, never completely quiet or still, and this is why he loved it.

Other men, in various stages of informal uniform dress, lounged around early morning cooking fires or were pulling clothing from lines strung between camps.

Fedya marched past, earning salutes and “Captains” along the way. He was burning with righteous fury; the anger from his argument with Clara still running hotly through him.

She didn’t understand. 

She didn’t know the compulsion he had for danger, for release. No matter the cost.

_You must learn that every risk you take affects more than just yourself._

His strides were slowing, his whole injured side throbbing. 

His life had always been a gamble, right from the start. He hadn’t fought his way to Petersburg’s highest society without risk. He wouldn’t even have managed to win Clara as his wife without risk; he was painfully aware he had shot way above his own station, with her.

_What if we have children? They will share in this world of yours, as well._

He stopped short, pushing his hair roughly from his face. A future with children had occurred to him, of course it had. Life with Clara had opened up a whole universe of possibility that both terrified and elated him. 

The world she occupied, and everything it represented, had always stayed safely away from the heat and wrath of battle. Clara, his sisters and mother: they were his heart, and that was being kept safe for him in Russia, half the world away.

Until Clara’s arrival: now his heart was here with him, in the Persian desert. His realities had collided.

And it scared him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, these two. Hopefully there's a smutty reunion in their future, eh?


	7. One World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov and Clara must learn how to reconcile their two worlds.

I’m always ready for a war again, go down that road again, it’s all the same.  
I’m always ready to take a life again, you know I ride again, it’s all the same.

Tell me who’s gon’ save me from myself, when this life is all I know?  
Tell me who’s gon’ save me from this hell, without you, I’m all alone.

_-"Pray For Me", The Weeknd ft. Kendrick Lamar_

Fedya did not return; Clara paced the floorboards of their quarters, watching the sun wash the world in light and listening for the sound of his boots flying up the stairs. 

The sound that didn’t come.

She _knew_ she was right. It was ridiculous, pure foolhardiness, that he was leaving for God knew how many days, to risk his life in the middle of the desert when he could barely lift his arm higher than his waist. She continued to pace, mentally replaying their conversation over and over, worrying both that she had pushed him too far, and not far enough.

Eventually, she washed and dressed, taking her time, hoping he would appear. She knew he had weapons and extra uniform clothes stored in both the barracks and in the officers’ hall, so there was no need for him to come back. 

An hour later, Clara gave it up, the combination of heartache and simmering anger driving her to distraction. She left their quarters and headed for the infirmary. Better to keep useful, and busy.

Rolling bandages, fetching water, writing letters dictated by soldiers unable to hold a pen to paper: Clara sought some calm in reaching outside of her own turbulent state of mind, but her thoughts kept returning to Fedya, again and again. 

Sending him off to war wasn’t new to either of them. The memory of their first goodbye was still clear to her: the candlelit ballroom, Fedya whirling her across the shining floor, his hand at her waist, his green eyes burning with the unspoken declaration they were both on the verge of confessing. 

They had succumbed to their forbidden passion in an alcove. Afterwards, he had whispered a broken goodbye, and at the time, Clara thought it would be the only parting they would share. It had been hard to imagine the world she was sending him to.

This - watching the same man, now her husband - lead a group of men into battle when a few days before, Clara had seen him collapse to his knees, soaked in his own blood - this was horrifyingly real. 

Abruptly, Clara stopped rolling the linen bandage in her hands and stood up. She had just over an hour to find him. She was being foolish, and stubborn; she couldn’t let Fedya leave without saying goodbye.

*************

It was an hour before departure, and the men of the fourth regiment were assembled in the morning heat; checking supplies and saddling horses. Dolokhov made his way among them, introducing himself, sizing them up mentally, getting to know them before leading them through war. His progress with his own stallion was impeded by continuous scans for Clara in the people coming and going.

A night full of drinking and vigorous sex, followed by an argument, had left him feeling tense and uneasy. His stitches pulled unpleasantly, and his whole right side burned in a foreboding way. He had been toying with the idea of apologizing to Clara all morning, but his pride wouldn’t let him. Besides, he reasoned, it wasn’t as if he was going to give up being a soldier. 

And there was no way in hell he was backing down from the battle.

Their earlier words came back to him, as they had been all morning, along with Clara’s troubled expression, love and fire in her eyes in equal measure as she challenged him. 

His heart squeezed, and he swung himself up on his horse, turning in the direction of the infirmary.

“Dolokhov?”

Sasha, who had requested to come along on the mission, squinted up at him from the ground.

“I have something I must take care of.”

“Come now, my good man. We’re due to depart at the half-hour mark.”

“I’ll return in time.”

“Fedya.” Sasha gave him an exasperated look. “Whatever it is can wait. It’s already-”

“Yes, I can tell the blasted time, Sasha. I’ll return!” Dolokhov flashed him a grin, spurred his horse, and galloped off to the infirmary, where Clara was bound to be.

*************

As he approached, there were two officer’s wives seated outside, folding linen. 

“That’s Captain Fyodor Dolokhov,” one whispered to her friend, and they both giggled as he strode towards them. 

“Ladies.” He bowed, and as the younger one had come over with a furious fit of giggles, he addressed the other one. 

“Is my wife inside? Clara Dolokhovna?”

The woman appraised him, smiling and batting her lashes at him. “She already left, Captain. I had heard you were leaving for the front?”

“Yes. Good afternoon.” He left, knowing he was being abrupt, but quite frankly not caring. Where was Clara?

He mounted again, and shot off in the direction of their quarters, a bit desperate now.

As soon as he pulled up out front, one of his own officers looked up from a nearby campfire. 

“Are you looking for your wife, Captain?”

“Yes, I-”

“She left for the infirmary this morning.”

The bugle sounded, and Dolokhov swore. He had to return to his troops. He charged away from the camp, down the path, and slowed to a trot as he made his way up the line of men, most ready now, some laughing with each other, some starting to look grey with nervousness. 

“Fedya!”

He turned, heart racing, to see Clara running towards him. He dismounted and she stopped in front of him, an apron over her dress, her curls escaping from their knot and blowing across her face.

“I tried to find you in the barracks but they said you had-”

He pulled her into his arms. “I went to the infirmary and they said you’d left-”

“I couldn’t let you go,” she said, still breathless from running. “Not without-”

He kissed her, hard, and he felt her hands thread into his hair, pulling him closer, and for a moment, as the drumming started up and their hearts beat in time, tongues meeting in wordless exchange, they understood each other perfectly. 

“I know this is who you are” she breathed, as they drew apart. “And I love you for it,” she said, and placed her hand on his chest. “Promise to come back to me, Fedya.”

Everything he wanted to say to her, all he wanted to confess, and he was out of time.

“Promise me,” she demanded again, and as he met her searing hazel gaze, he made the vow he had made before, but this time, he allowed himself to feel the full weight of it. 

“I promise, Clara.” 

He spoke the words in English to show how deeply he meant it, kissed her hand, then swung himself up in the saddle. He met her eyes one last time, then galloped to the front of the march, the call of battle already singing in his blood. 

********

The ninth regiment was barely holding the line when Dolokhov and his men arrived. The Shamkor River sparkled in the sunshine, and the sandy banks were soaked with dark red blood, bodies in various stages of decay floating in the water, the Russians being too tired to retrieve their fallen comrades. Sunshine glittered off swords lying abandoned on the other side.

Dolokhov ordered his men into the water to fetch the bodies of their brothers, wading into the red-stained water himself to help. 

Later, he and a few of his best men met with the other captain, who informed him they were expecting another attack that evening, but couldn’t be sure of the timing, or of where they planned to breach the Russian defenses. 

“You need a spy,” stated Dolokhov.

“Well, that would be something, but nobody in their right mind would-”

“Maybe if we-”

The men broke out into a heated discussion, and Dolokhov was becoming bored. He was no strategist, not having the patience for it, and there was a clear solution in front of them.

He had done it before, many times. In the deep winter, in the glow of the French soldiers’ campfires. He was skilled at morphing and adapting, at trickery and charm. He had picked up a smattering of Persian. 

How hard, after all, would it be to slip into an old role?

_You must learn that every risk you take affects more than just you._

He thought of their argument, from a mere few days ago. She was _here_ , and when this was over, he would ride the short distance and be with her. The realization of how close she was hit him all over again, and the need to return to her was stronger than ever. His perspective shifted, and he understood, in a way he hadn't before, exactly how much he stood to lose: the life he had with Clara.

In other words, everything.

How much harder, to never see her again? 

Dolokhov cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen!” he said, and the men quieted, turning to his effortless air of command. 

“Here is what we will do.”

*******

Waiting was torture. 

Clara kept busy and useful around the camp. She learned the best way to dress a wound without causing pain, how to wring out clothes to help them dry faster, and spent a morning in the kitchens, picking weevils from flour until her eyes blurred. 

She visited Mila and Aleks, whose fever broke on the fifth day. His recovery was slow and the smallest of movements exhausted him, but he wouldn’t let Mila’s hand out of his, and his friendly smile never left his face. 

Clara wrote to Natasha and Pierre, and to her brother and sister-in-law, and her father. She walked, tidied, helped, cleaned, and re-read two of the books she had brought with her.

A week passed, then another, and the whole time, Clara tried to stay active and calm. She wasn’t privy to the official military reports on the Shamkor River Campaign, and there were no letters, apart from official missives, delivered there. Rumour sweeping the camp was that the fourth and fifth regiments had pulled off a daring manoeuvre that held the defense, but came at a cost; there were losses. Word spread that one of the three captains had been killed in action. 

It was one day shy of Fedya’s expected return, as the rays of the setting sun were illuminating the floorboards of their room, that Clara heard the sound of a bugle announcing a platoon. She barely noticed; the Russian camp was filled with returning and departing soldiers, and Fedya’s regiment was due tomorrow.

But then, a quarter of an hour later: a deep voice downstairs that was greeted with cheering, and a familiar burst of laughter. She stood unsteadily, emotions rendering the world unsteady at her feet as boots marched up the stairs. The door to their room swung open, and there Fedya was, standing in the frame.

He looked glorious, and wild: tall and strong, his posture indicating that his injured shoulder was long healed. He was radiating energy, dark hair curling at his neck with sweat, green eyes gleaming, his face streaked with dirt. She could smell the scent of sweat and blood and gunpowder emanating from him.

They stood there, not moving, staring at each other. Then he reached for her, and she ran to him, gasping into his hair in between kisses.

“I promised,” he whispered over and over, his hands and mouth touching, caressing, roaming across her lips and forehead. 

She captured his head between her hands. 

“They said that there were heavy losses, and I couldn’t stop thinking that I had lost you-”

“No, never, never-” he replied, barely taking the time to say it between fierce presses of his lips to her neck and mouth. 

His lips sought hers, and she opened her mouth, desperate for him, both of them lost in an endless, deep sweep of a kiss. She moaned into him, long and anguished, and his arms dropped low, hoisting her up and against him, lifting her as if she were nothing more than a piece of clothing. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

“I need you,” she gasped. “Fedya, I need you-”

She didn’t finish, he captured her mouth with his again, and they were kissing each other fast and hard; they couldn’t stop, it was more than just desire. It was the need to prove that he was alive, that he was here, that he had kept his promise. 

He walked to the bed, Clara still wrapped around him, and they fell onto it, a tangle of limbs, and he was already pushing up her skirts and she was already undoing his uniform jacket, then reaching for his trousers, breaking pace only to exchange fevered, battling kisses.

And then he was free, hard in her hand, and she spread her legs, falling back onto the mattress, and he was spitting onto his fingers, then working her clit between finger and thumb, and she was throwing her head against the sheets and arching her back, thrusting into his touch.

She was twisting and moaning beneath him, and he dropped to his knees, pulling her hips right to the edge of the bed, and within seconds his tongue was hot and wet against her, licking a flat drag up her centre, causing her to buck.

He was sucking gently, then roughly, then licking and teasing and twirling her into heavenly torture, and the short, constant gasps and mewls that echoed through the room were coming from her own throat.

A burst, a tidal wave, a torrent of sensation, and she was barely over the crest of it before he stood again and pushed inside her, and she was pulling at his shirt, dragging him closer. He was thrusting into her, and each time he withdrew she wanted him back; he was keeping her on the brink of pleasure. 

She pulled him roughly down to her mouth, hands grabbing at his hair, their tongues battling, and she was begging him for more.

He withdrew, then grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over onto her knees, climbing up behind her and gathering her skirts. She felt the soft fabric of his breeches, undone but still on, against her skin as he placed a knee between her legs, edging them apart. And then he was inside her again, but from this angle it was more, so much more, and she dropped her head onto her forearms and cried out with the pleasure of it, overcome with pure sensation.

“Don’t stop,” she groaned into the mattress, as he had slowed at her cry. “God, don’t stop-”

She felt him bend forward, felt a reverent brush of his lips to the back of her neck, mustache tickling the skin, then he picked up the pace again, holding her hips steady as he slammed into her again and again, faster and faster until she was meeting him with each thrust, pushing back against him and fisting her hands into the sheets, cursing and pleading into the pillow.

He reached one hand around her, pressing a thumb firmly to her clit, and it sent her careening over the edge. Clara came so hard that tears came to her eyes, and she was aware of him tumbling after, pumping into her and collapsing over her with one last curse.

They were soaked and breathless as the world reformed around them. They collapsed onto the mattress, side by side, half-dressed in tangled clothes, and Clara only now became aware of the dirt streaked across her dress, the torn fabric at her sleeve. 

Fedya leaned towards her and kissed her chastely on the neck.

“Hello.”

She laughed, and traced a faint red line, still healing, on the side of his temple. 

“Hello yourself, you rogue.”

He kissed her fingertips, examining the cuts and burns that the work of the last few weeks had left there.

Clara tried to pull them away, slightly embarrassed.

“Not a Countess’ hands, anymore.”

He looked at her.

“No, these hands are not afraid of work. These are my wife's hands, and I'm damn proud of them.”

He kissed them again, before turning onto his back and throwing an arm behind his head. 

“When we arrived,” he said casually, “there was an opportunity, when we got to the river, for me to be a spy and break into the Persian camp.”

Clara didn’t say anything, waiting as he glanced at her, then continued.

“It would have been a good way to obtain essential information about an upcoming attack.”

“Would have been,” she repeated.

His hand rubbed idly at the scruff along his jaw. 

“I’m not used to looking at fighting as something that would hurt anyone other than myself.”

He glanced at her again, this time holding her gaze with his.

“It is far better to fight _for_ something. And that’s what I became aware of: I was fighting to get back to you, which would not happen if I took such a risk.”

Clara swallowed.

“So you didn’t cross into the Persian camp?”

“No. I suggested a ploy to draw them towards us instead, near the mouth of the river.”

“That was the manoeuvre that was rumoured, that won the campaign.”

“Yes. It was still a risk, and we lost men, but it was the only thing I could think of.”

Clara brushed his hair off his forehead. 

“That, and your shoulder was bothering you just a bit," she teased, and he threw back his head and laughed. 

"It felt like my whole damn arm was going to fall off." 

He pulled her close to him, and she rested her cheek against his chest. He kissed the crown of her head. 

She hesitated, then said,

“I never want you to give up who you are.” She lifted her head, and they looked at each other.

“I’m only asking that you remember the world you leave behind. The one I live in.”

Clara waited, her heart full, as he reached out and took her hand in his, placing it on his shirt above his heart. 

“Clara, my darling. Our worlds are one and the same, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never want to say goodbye to these two, but this is where I want to leave them. Thank you to the small but enthusiastic group of you who read along with me. So much! I hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I did. ❤
> 
> ...of course, as soon as I think I'm done with Dolokhov, HE swaggers in and isn't done with me. And he's already given me something else to work with. Typical. 😄
> 
> Also, that song is from my Musketeers playlist, but it's fitting for Fedya, and this fic. ❤

**Author's Note:**

> The Russo-Persian War had a few "installments," the first one ending in 1813.
> 
> "War and Peace" has epilogues that go into the late 1820s, but I wrote my own, non-canon timeline that focuses on Fedya around 1813. In my head canon version of events, he and Clara have just been engaged, and he's sent off to this war. Apologies to the literature timeline!


End file.
